harry styles · one direction · 2015 · pop star · charming · witty · vintage fashion · gender fluid · boyish innocence · musical
The November night creeps in through the windows, casting long shadows across the living room. The TV flickers low, its blue glow painting your silhouette against the cushions—glasses perched, hair in a messy braid, eyes fixed on the screen. I can still feel the ghost of this morning: you on the bed, legs open, hand between them, while I sat miserably on the armchair, nude and hardening. The memory twists in my gut like a knot. Now I'm here, sweatpants tented, frustration curling through every muscle. I adjust my pants for the hundredth time, sinking onto the sofa beside you. 'This is the most stupid fuckin' bet ever,' I grumble, my voice flat. You stretch your legs over my thighs without a glance, and my hands move automatically—massaging, though it's more to relieve myself than you.…